


Closer Than You Think

by monicawoe



Series: Boy King Sam Episode Remixes [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood Drinking, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Demon Dean Winchester, Episode: s04e06 Yellow Fever, Episode: s05e02 Good God Y'all!, Episode: s08e23 Sacrifice, Episode: s10e03 Soul Survivor, Episode: s15e04 Atomic Monsters, Gen, Mind Manipulation, Psychological Horror, Sam Winchester Drinks Demon Blood From Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:15:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27825889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monicawoe/pseuds/monicawoe
Summary: Five times Sam’s eyes were demonic, and one time they weren’t.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: Boy King Sam Episode Remixes [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1467973
Comments: 12
Kudos: 70
Collections: 2020 Supernatural & CWRPF Holiday Exchange





	Closer Than You Think

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gaialux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/gifts).



> written for jalu2  
> big thanks to my beta Roadie!

**FIVE (King)**

Sam’s eyes bled solid black, gleaming in the sullen red lights of the bunker. Dean looked up at him, pleading, hoping for a glimmer of his brother still there behind all that power, all that madness, but he couldn’t find it. The Sam he’d known and spent half his life protecting was gone. He'd been gone for a long time now.

"Sammy, please... _Please._ "

Sam cocked his head; Dean’s neck snapped.

Dean stared up at the ceiling for those last few seconds as the oxygen slowly seeped from his brain, watching the red lights flicker and dance as his vision sputtered. He should’ve stopped Sam earlier, should’ve. If he could’ve. But he could never. Even when he could have, he could never.

Sam’s face filled Dean’s field of view one last time, oil-slick eyes and razor blade smile and Dean reached out to him, or tried to. But Sam straightened and stepped over him like he was nothing more than a pothole.

*

**FOUR (Demon)**

As Sam ran through the halls of the bunker, Dean could smell his fear in the air. It was intoxicating. And Sam was going to try to rob him of these kinds of delights. No way. Dean _liked_ being a demon, he liked being higher up on the food chain.

His mouth watered as he considered what he’d do once he caught his brother. He could hurt Sam plenty with his hands, but he wanted something else, something a little less intimate to start with. 

Dean stopped by the kitchen, considered a knife, but his gaze caught on a hammer left out on the counter instead. Perfect. He headed back into the hallway, whistling to get Sam's attention, flipping the hammer lightly in his palm.

When he caught up to him a few minutes later, Sam's fear had shifted into something else. Desperation. He didn't look afraid for himself anymore and was that pity on his face? Pathetic. Sam fought back too, and to his credit disarmed Dean easily enough, then brought his blade—Ruby's blade— to Dean's throat, right below his Adam's Apple.

"Well … look at you. Do it. It’s all you," Dean said, leaning into the metal, pushing it deeper in, until it bit through his skin, a brief flash of heat as his blood began to spill, sizzling against the blade."Come on, Sammy," Dean goaded. His brother wouldn't kill him. Couldn't. He cared too damn much.

And he was right. True to form, Sam just stood there, immobilized, hand trembling—adorable.

Dean shifted his weight, couldn't help it, happy to draw out the agony of this moment even longer. "What's the matter? Chicken?"

Sam ignored him, still entranced, focused wholly on the blade. His eyes grew darker, pupils dilating, until the green-yellow-blue was completely swallowed up by black.

"Ah," Dean said, realizing the full beauty of this moment. He'd been so caught up in his thoughts of inflicting physical pain on Sam, he hadn't even considered the psychological torment of offering up Sam's favorite drug. Despite the fact that it was a bit diluted, it was still an open bottle for Sam.

"Want a taste?" Dean said. And now Sam's chin snapped up. He stared at Dean, pupils two black discs. "Come on, first lick is free," Dean said, biting his lip, arching his neck just enough for the blade to open him up a little further.

Sam yanked the knife away, slicing the cut open wider, and lunged forward, latching onto the wound with a ferocity that rivaled any demon’s.

“Yeah,” Dean said, pushing Sam’s head down even more. “That’s right you fucking junkie. Come on.”

But Sam didn’t react, didn’t pause, didn’t even come up for air, he just kept on drinking, throat working in a steady, pulsing rhythm.

Dean chuckled at that, how easy it’d been. He should’ve done this from the get-go. Now he could do whatever he wanted with Sam, as long as he gave him a steady supply, he could get him to do—anything. “All right, Sammy. That’s enough,” he said, grabbing Sam by the hair to pull him away.

But Sam didn’t budge. After another two harsher but futile tugs Dean let go of his hair, and tried to shove him away only to discover he couldn’t move a muscle. He was locked in place, hands held stiffly in front of him, arms gone rigid.

Sam pulled away, chin slick and dripping and grinned at Dean with red-stained teeth. His eyes were solid black, whites completely gone.

And that was when Dean realized he’d miscalculated.

*

**THREE (Trials)**

Dean found Crowley in the church, no sign of Sam. A bloodied syringe lay on the floor, cherry red against the pale floor.

“Where’s Sam?” Dean asked, dragging his eyes away from the syringe and up to Crowley.

“He ran off. Got a _tad_ upset when he realized he couldn’t completely cure me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Human blood imbued with the divine energy of the trials can cure a demon, it’s true. But then, your brother hasn’t exactly been human for a while now, has he?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Yes, Hell. Exactly.”

Dean punched Crowley in the jaw, just for the feel of it.

“Aww, you do care.”

“Where did he go?”

“How should I know what’s going on in that oversized skull of his? Probably went somewhere to sulk. It’s a hard thing to accept: that he’ll never be clean, he’ll never be pure enough for God—not even to do God’s dirty work.”

“Shut your mouth.”

“Or what?” Crowley asked. “I’m supposed to believe you’re going to stay here and babysit me while Sam’s out there being metaphysically torn apart with no chance of release?” He scoffed. “I know you two far too well for that.”

“You think I’m just gonna leave you here?”

“Yes, because your brother is out there alone, near death.” Crowley huffed a laugh. “And you’re fundamentally incapable of not running after him, no matter the cost.”

*

Dean ran outside, to the Impala, but stopped short of getting in. Sam, in the condition he was in couldn’t have gone far. Scanning the area, there were only really two ways Sam could’ve gone: down the road towards the highway, or into the nearby woods. Dean headed for the woods, certain that Sam would’ve gone somewhere he could hide.

The woods weren’t all that dense, comprised mostly of sickly birches that wind and time had shaped into rib-like curves.

“Sam!” Dean called out. Spindly branches snapped as he shoved his way through. “Sammy!” He stood still for a moment, listening, but the carpet of dead leaves muffled noise and all he could hear was his own heart kicking anxiously in double time.

A smear of blood on a nearby trunk caught his eye and he called out again: “Sam?” An answering, weak moan came from close by and Dean ran towards it.

Sam was sprawled on the ground, limbs akimbo, a scrape on the side of his face, his skin clammy and nearly as pale as the bark of the trees around them.

“Sam!” Dean dropped to his knees beside his brother. Sam showed no signs of recognition, eyes half closed, breath coming in uneven shallow gasps. God, he’d gotten so thin. It hit Dean all at once how much damage these trials had done to Sam, and he cursed again that he hadn’t gotten to the first one himself. It should’ve been him.

“Come on, it's okay,” he said softly, sliding his hand under Sam’s head. Dean shifted, wrapping his other arm around Sam’s shoulder, trying to pull him up enough to get some leverage. He could drag him back to the car. It wouldn’t be easy, but he could do it.

But he’d barely gotten Sam’s torso an inch off the ground before Sam went rigid—his whole body stiffening. Sam made a not-good sound and his body started convulsing and Dean had heard that noise before, seen Sam’s face do the same thing it was doing now. He was seizing, eyes rolled back in his head. Dean let Sam down, settling him as a gently as he could back on the earth, shoved branches and everything else that could do damage out of the way.

The seizure stopped after an excruciating few minutes and Sam went still but only for a few seconds before going straight into another. Spittle foamed at his mouth and that awful white glow in his arms got brighter, pulsing up and down Sam’s veins. Sam’s hips bucked violently upwards and his gasps came more erratically, not nearly enough air for his lungs.

“He’s going to die,” Crowley said from right beside Dean. “Unless…”

That Crowley had gotten free somehow didn’t matter much to Dean at that moment, only what he’d said. “Unless what?”

“That much celestial energy in his body, it’s going to kill him. He was made for Hell, not Heaven.”

Dean ignored him, focusing instead on Sam’s breathing —what little of it he could still feel. He had to get him to a hospital.

“He was with us—with _Lucifer_ —for a long, long time. The Devil took apart every molecule of your brother and put it back together over and over, just to amuse himself. There’s no part of Sam that isn’t impure.”

“Shut up.”

“There’s only one thing that’ll give him his equilibrium back.” Crowley pulled a syringe out of his coat pocket and rolled back his sleeve.

“No. Screw you!” Dean snapped, turning back to Sam, who’d gone still again.

“No skin off my back,” Crowley said. “I’d be better off, in fact I’d argue the whole world would be better off with one less Winchester. But we’ve got a history, don’t we?” Crowley crouched down next to Dean and let the now-full syringe drop onto the ground. It rolled, partially obscured by the dry leaves Dean had shoved aside in his hurry.

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean pleaded, grabbing Sam’s face with trembling hands. “Come on.”

But Sam didn’t react, and he was so cold to the touch it sent ice echoing down Dean’s spine. He leaned in close, and listened for a breath that didn’t come.

Dean sat back on his heels, his world caving in on him, and then picked the syringe up off the ground and brought it to Sam’s arm, right to where that vile light was still glowing, even now. He pushed down on the plunger, forcing Crowley's blood into Sam, yanked the syringe out, threw it into the trees, and waited.

A solid minute passed. Sam’s lifeless eyes stared up at the sky; Dean thought of a cabin in Cold Oak and Stull Cemetery and wondered why this never got any easier.

And then Sam breathed.A stuttering, unsteady sucking of air, but it was a breath.

“Sammy?” Dean reached for Sam again, helping him sit as Sam’s breaths became choppier and then turned into a full blown coughing fit. The light in his arms was spreading, traveling all the way up, highlighting the veins of his face and neck now glowing frightfully in the dark. Sam coughed again, leaned hard to his side away from Dean and puked, white light spilling onto the earth along with the stench of bile.

“That’s it,” Dean shifted so he could brush Sam’s hair away from his face, couldn’t resist the urge to slap him on the back once more for good measure. He’d done it too many times when Sam was a kid and had swallowed water down the wrong tube.

Sam grabbed at Dean’s wrist weakly, turning his face to look at him, a sticky smear of light on his chin like he’d gnawed on a glow stick. “Dean?”

And Dean’s heartbeats felt light, tripping over themselves in relief. “Hey Sam. You’re okay,” he said.

His brother looked back at him, eyes no longer bloodshot, but black as pitch and smiled weakly.

“You’re okay.”

*

**TWO (War)**

It was hard to tell what was real and what wasn’t, but at least now Dean knew what he was dealing with. This wasn’t a town overrun with demons; they were dealing with a Horseman. Dean approached the cookie cutter suburban house carefully. The only house around with smoke coming out the chimney. He could see Jo and Rufus inside, which meant Sam had to be there too. He got closer, trying to map the layout of the house as best he could without Jo and Rufus seeing him. They’d probably think he was a demon, same as everybody else; and given what he’d seen so far it seemed unlikely he’d be able to just reason with them.

He had to find Sam, then they’d find War, and together they could figure out how to undo whatever War was doing to the people of this town. As he snuck past the windows, Dean chanced another look at Jo, who was sitting on the couch, surprised to find her fast asleep. Rufus too, as it turned out, slumped over on an armchair. What the hell? Both of them were way too seasoned hunters to risk falling asleep in a town full of demons—real or imagined. Which could only mean somebody had put them to sleep. War was here.

Dean opened the door quietly anyway, paused for a moment, looking over to the living room where Rufus and Jo slept on. Following his gut, he went past them to a door in the back, following the smell of burning wood.

The moment his hand touched the doorknob, the pressure against his skull tightened, a vice squeezing his brain, but he gritted his teeth, turned the knob and stepped through the door, nearly blind with pain. The door clicked shut behind him, and the heat of the fire was so strong it made his eyes tear, but he forced them open.

Sam was bound to a chair, sitting across from Roger. Sam's face was bruised and bloodied, crusted with salt. “Dean, it’s War!”The image stuttered, wavering as the heat in the room ratcheted up a notch and Dean saw another reality overlaid on this one: War on his knees, sleeve pushed back, a red gash on his forearm, dripping down in a rubied rain, each drop sizzling as it hit the floorboards. Dean fought his way further into the room, managed one more step before the world buckled around him again and peeled away to show Sam with his mouth latched onto that wound on War’s arm, making sounds that Dean had only ever heard him make behind closed doors when he thought no one was listening.

The world stopped shaking, steadied into horrifying clarity. War turned to Dean, smiling, as Sam drank. “You think you’re gonna keep the demons away from your bro? He’s our MVP. My poster boy. You think this town is bad? Sweetheart, the whole _world’s_ gonna bleed for him.” War carded his fingers through Sam’s hair, his ring glinting in the firelight.

Sam pulled away, wiped the back of his hand across his red-slicked mouth and turned to Dean with beetle black eyes, serene and sated. “Dean.” And the world stuttered again, Sam’s face wounded and frightened. “It’s his ring, Dean.” He was bound with rope, his arms tied behind him and—“Dean!”

Dean pushed the palms of his hands against his eyes and took another step forward, following Sam’s voice. He couldn’t trust his eyes, and he wasn’t quite sure he could trust his brother, but what choice did he have?

He could feel Sam close to him, heard the soft huff he gave when he collided with him. On instinct, he moved when Sam shoved his shoulder into him. A choreography they’d done a thousand times when they couldn’t see, protecting each other—Dean kept his eyes close and listened, wrapping his arms around War when he got close, he kept them close as he heard the chair Sam had been tied to clatter to the floor—Sam had freed himself; Dean kept his eyes closed when War cried out, and opened them when that horrible pressure in his skull vanished completely.

Roger was on the ground, motionless, missing two fingers, blood pooling around them.

“Dean,” Sam said softly, and Dean turned towards his brother—saw his bruised cheek, the red stains on his chin. “We did it.” Sam opened his hand; there was a bloodied, golden ring lying in his palm. He picked it up and slid it on, twisting it thoughtfully. “So we don’t lose it.”

Dean nodded, ignoring the faint pressure in his brain. He needed water, and food. They both did. But first they had to go help Jo and Rufus.

*****

**ONE (Fear)**

It couldn't have been real: Sam’s yellow eyes, the press of his vice-like hand against Dean’s throat, the way his honeyed voice still echoed in Dean’s head.

But later, when they were getting ready to leave, case solved, ghost dusted, Sam asked him, "What'd you see? Seriously.”

And that last word had _weight_ to it. It slithered through Dean's thoughts, sleek and implacable like that giant boa, and Sam's eyes were the same yellow and white as its scales.

"Howler monkeys," Dean said, keeping his game face firmly in place.

"Right," Sam said, smiling to himself as he took another sip from his beer.

It was the smile that did it. The satisfied curve of it and the pleased warmth that spilled out of Sam, drenching the air around Dean. Sam was happy, and Dean’s gut churned miserably as he understood what that meant.

It took Dean until that night, when they were both in bed, and Dean had been staring at the expanse of Sam's back in the dark for a solid fifteen minutes—it took him until then to get up the nerve to ask, "Why?"

Sam turned to him, eyes glittering in the wan light coming in from the motel parking lot lamps. "Why what?"

"You know what."

"I want you to say it," Sam said it sweetly, like he was six years old, asking for Dean to read him a bedtime story.

Dean cleared his throat. "Why didn't I get pulled back to Hell?"

Sam smiled, and even in the dark Dean could see that familiar curve. He wasn't afraid this time though, not even when Sam's eyes began to glow yellow-white again, two little jaundiced moons. "Because it's way more fun for me keeping you here."

Dean swallowed. He wasn't sure if the lump in his throat was terror or relief, but the warmth in Sam’s words wrapped itself around Dean in a smothering blanket, it felt familiar, like licking flames and the trickle of blood left behind by razor wire. The attentive gentle kisses of Hell. Dean wasn't afraid anymore. Why would he be? He met his brother's eyes, and said, "Thank you."

*

**And One Time They Were Human**

"Sam," Dean cried out, once more, _one last time_ , voice rasped raw from screaming. He'd called for him non-stop for hours, days, years and he just _couldn't_ anymore. Alastair smiled at him with that wicked scythe-like curve and reached his hand back into Dean's intestines. "That's right. Your brother's not coming. You're here with me, forever."

But Dean wasn't afraid. He didn't scream, not when Alastair dug in deeper and wrenched his liver out, not when the demon pulled Dean’s ribs apart, splayed them wide so he could drive acid-dipped needles into Dean’s heart, not even when Alastair himself burst into white fire and exploded, smoldering chunks of him falling down onto Dean's pried open body in heavy wet chunks. The torture chamber's walls incinerated, flaked apart as ash until there was nothing left except his metal cot and the sound of his own blood and viscera dribbling onto the floor.

“Sam,” Dean said again, not a cry for help anymore, but a greeting.

His brother stood before him, eyes gentle and human. He reached out for Dean, laid his hands on him, and Dean’s body stitched itself back together, ribs closing over his heart which beat steady, warm and safe. His skin sealed itself up, unmarked save for his tattoo. Dean took Sam’s hand, pulled inexorably up, up, up, and Hell fell away below them.

Dean woke up in a wooden box, a coffin, splintering around him. He was still holding Sam’s hand, clutching it like a lifeline as he broke through the surface of the earth and collapsed on the ground. Air—crisp and clean and real filled his lungs in a rush and he sat up. _Not in Hell. Alive._

“Sammy?” Dean asked, his voice still rough, blinking against the brilliance around him until he could see again: his brother, standing above him. Sunlight, golden and warm, surrounded Sam’s head like a halo.


End file.
